


Punching

by Msynergy



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Feels, Gen, Stangst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-05
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2019-02-28 19:58:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13278789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Msynergy/pseuds/Msynergy
Summary: He’d punched a lot of things in his life. Wooden boards, bullies, pterodactyls, just to name a few.





	Punching

He’d punched a lot of things in his life. Wooden boards, bullies, pterodactyls, just to name a few.

But when he punched Cipher into oblivion, it wasn’t like any of the other times. He saw that triangle’s face cave then shatter under his knuckles, but no answering pain, no bruises or splits. A small blessing as blue flame ate the rest.

He thinks a lot about that punch in the aftermath. It’s the first punch he remembers after being “brought back from the brink” as his melodramatic brother calls it. It’s no wonder where Mabel gets it from.

That same brother snores lightly overhead in the top bunk, oblivious to his memory wandering as he raises a hand. 

A couple fingers are bent, broken from previous fights and never healed right.

He makes a fist.

All the knuckles are riddled with scar tissue, some to the point that no hair grows there anymore. 

He likes these marks more than the other invisible ones, still scabbing over after decades of neglect. He’d always been better at punching.

 “Stan? You okay?”

And Sixer had always been too nosy for his own good.

“Yeah, Ford, I’m fine.” 

A pause, then a six-fingered hand dangles from a sweater-clad arm in the space between bunks.

Another memory, the hand smaller, but still reaching out. Another nightmare night, he got them more than his brother, but they both knew their old man didn’t take kindly to being woken up because of them.

He reaches up, for a moment his own hand small and unscarred, and then six fingers grasp his five tight. They’re calloused and rough, but an anchor as much now has back then.

“Thanks, Sixer.”

Ford’s grip tightens. 

“You’re welcome, Stan.”

On second thought, maybe punching wasn’t the only thing his hands were good for.


End file.
